Tom sets me on my feet and stands. You need to get back,carissima. Before your parents cotton on to the fact they have an escape artistfor a daughter.
We can’t have that now, can we?
Laughter rumbles up from his chest. Let’s study the dreamout a bit more, and then meet in a few days.
Just tell me when, lover.
A ripple of wanting travels from him to me. Lust, respect,love, friendship. It’s all inside my head, and I know my face is flaming. Whichis an embarrassing thing for a near-albino.
Leaving the maze together, we converse in our unique way, andtravel back across the grounds to my home. The exact route I took before but inreverse—courtyard, chess board, statuary, etcetera—until we finally arrive atour destination. Stealth personified, Tom and I sneak up to the less-frequentedservant’s entrance. I wait beside the door, listening as he walks away.
My smile grows smaller with each receding step.
“Be careful, Veritas,” he whispers. “Remember what Mary Ardensaid.”
I extend my hearing farther and farther until my ears hurt, butit’s worth knowing when Tom reaches his horse, tied to a tree in the appleorchard. He climbs into the saddle and rides north at a fast clip, toward hisfamily’s ranch. How would it feel to be so free? To race the wind?
Then I hear my name being bandied about inside the kitchen.Cook is telling Martha that my dinner tray is ready. I subdue my magic ears,tiptoe up to my bedroom and shut the door. After throwing my cloak and shawlinto the wardrobe, I jump under the covers of my bed, pull the blankets up, andturn to face the wall. The stairs creak as Martha climbs them with my dinnertray. She won’t question my taking a rest. Why should she? I have noresponsibilities or friends who would come to call. Nothing is expected of theinfirm Miss Hester.
Yet if I seem too robust the servants will talk to Mama. Sheprefers me as a near-invalid. It’s unacceptable to act wild or get excited—that’swhen the laudanum is brought out.
Martha walks down the hallway, enters my room, and places thedinner tray on a nightstand. “Warm rolls and a bowl of chicken broth today,miss. Cup of buttermilk, some shortbread. I expect you can manage thatyourself.”
Botheration. I hate buttermilk. And what of the chocolategateau? The dessert I smelled downstairs? I’d trade my shortbread for it in atrice.
Gateau is not to be, however, and Martha fills my bed-sidecarafe with water before leaving. Perhaps a nice cool drink is what I need. Myheart is thumping and my forehead is damp with perspiration after sneaking upthe stairs. But I got out of the house and back in with no one the wiser forit.
An escape artist indeed.
5
De fumo in flammam.
Out of the smoke, into the flame.
Cordeliaand I visit the Home for Orphans and Foundlings the next day. We sit at theback of a small classroom and listen to the children recite their history. Itis a scene straight out of Jane Eyre. Cordie has read the book to me severaltimes, and this sounds a lot like Lowood School.
The teacher raps on his desk, far too loudly in my opinion. Mr.Allen is a strict man who is inclined to punish first and ask questions later.My fingers are itching to touch Mr. Allen, but I haven’t the nerve. There mustbe an intriguing secret somewhere in his past to make him crave structure anddiscipline so badly. People like him always come from something dreadful.
“What is the current population of Stonehenge?” he asks.
“Ninety-eight thousand souls,” the students reply in unison.
“Very good.”
Mr. Allen walks the length of the room, tapping an objectagainst his palm. It sounds thin and flat—like a ruler. He stops at a desk nearthe front.
“Simmons Harrow, you will stand.”
“Yes, sir.”
At seventeen, Sim is the oldest child in the orphanage. He’sshy and sweet, and Allen often singles him out for abuse.
“When was Stonehenge founded, Mr. Harrow, and by whom?”
I hold my breath, hoping he has the correct answer, but Ineedn’t have worried. Sim clears his throat and recites with the skill of aseasoned thespian. “Eighteen fifty-nine, sir. Welsh immigrants camped in thefoothills outside town, near a double circle of stones with lintels on top.Almost identical to the Stonehenge in England.”
“Yes,” Mr. Allen replies. “And what became of thoseimmigrants?”
“They found gold, the biggest strike in Colorado.”
“That will be all, Harrow,” Mr. Allen says. “You there,Proctor. On your feet.”
The child rises from his desk slowly. He is a new addition tothe orphanage and possesses a terrible stutter. His fear has a sharp,vinegar-like odor and makes me feel ill. According to Sim, Proctor never knowsthe answers and spends most dinner breaks sitting on a stool with a dunce capon his head. I’ll sponsor the lad’s extra tutoring, but how can I prevent Allenfrom embarrassing him today? A hamper sits on the floor to my right, filledwith freshly baked rolls. I pick it up, having no better plan in mind, and riseto my feet, just as Allen reaches Proctor.
“Is there something you need?” Allen draws out each word asthough I am the thickest person in the room.
His students titter as I shake my head, step forward, and handhim the basket. Allen sighs with impatience and puts it down. On a desk? Achair? I’m not certain.
“Will that be all? May I continue now, Miss Grayson?”
Not if I can help it.
Using my cane as a guide, I distract Allen from asking Proctorquestions by wandering around the room. Allen thinks I am an imbecile and talksto me slowly, with simple words. He tries to guide me back to my seat severaltimes, but I intentionally turn the wrong way at the last moment. The childrenlaugh as I dodge their teacher once again and soon the noon bell rings.
Something lands with a clack at the front of the room, and Ijump at the sound. Cordelia touches my arm, whispering, “Just Mr. Allen tossinghis ruler to the desk. No need for concern, miss.”
The bread basket creaks when the teacher grabs it. “I reallyshould chide Miss Grayson for spoiling you with extra
